Go In Peace
by Miri Fern
Summary: Sequel to The Other. A troubled priest visits his estranged brother, and encounters his shadow-self.


THERE were things people didn't talk about in every realm and sphere of human civilization. Very commonly, sex was one of those things. No big deal; who wants to hear about what you did last night?

Some topics just couldn't be spoken of at all, not even in private. They were taboos, unmentionables, deviances done by degenerates. So beyond the pale young man who stood in the bathroom, looking at his reflection.

Certainly, no one would suspect _him_ of depravity or perversion. The face in the mirror was youthful and fresh, like a little boy's. The generous might even say the blue eyes and blonde hair made him seem almost angelic. And with those large aviator glasses, it became impossible to sense vice. He looked smart, studious, reserved and thoughtful.

Gaze a little further down and spy the white collar—a priest, no less! This young scholar was incorruptible. Had to be.

 _Why was he staring like that?_

Slowly, deliberately, he slunk out of the restroom. He walked with his shoulders thrust forward and his arms, stiff and straight as boards, were pressed firmly against his body. It was as if all his joints were locked, as though he were forcing himself to behave a certain way, a certain _human_ way. But it was only a poor imitation.

His heart wasn't in it. No, that wasn't true—he'd gone to nine years of school, first college, then a seminary, for this. It had to be worth it.

As he stepped back onto the crowded street, he thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

 _"When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him_?" Oh yes. When he let those beautiful words fill the dark crevices in his head, let the light shine on the secret corners of his heart, it was worth it. Like roots in the earth of his seeded memory, he could recall nights walking through the ancient cathedrals in Germany, as fragile and beautiful as a human life. One shout too loud, one organ note too strong, one blow to the back of the head—

He must stop this daydreaming. The devil will find work for idle hands. Not in the Bible, but sound advice to keep busy, especially if the devil was on your heels, walking in your shadow.

So he went back to reading and studying and listening.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned." Relief to them, catharsis for him. How much lighter this load: "I stole something." "I was angry and upset and I lashed out." "I have adulterous thoughts." "I lied."

He understood better than anyone what it meant to live a lie. _Hebrews 2:18, "For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted."_

After a few drags, he relaxed considerably, whether by nicotine or the comfort of a repetitive action. His posture loosening, he resumed walking down the sidewalk. Finally, he began to radiate, quite unconsciously, a certain air of sanctity familiar to anyone who has ever been around men of God. There was nothing outwardly different about him.

Perhaps his heart was in it, but his mind wasn't—always wandering, treading paths unspoken. Worse than taboo.

" _This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners; of whom I am chief."_ Write that down, it's good stuff.

The thoughts flew into his head like arrows from a primitive barbarian tribe. Cannibals, all. But it was a dream, a fantasy, nothing more—

Wild thoughts could be cured. Shove them aside, exchange them for verses. Give vile fancies for prayers. Fill his head with light and air. And when he felt it pressing against him, low in the night, a dull throbbing, burning need—so be it. Better here than anywhere.

" _But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart."_ Man or woman, it did not matter, the principles were the same. _And the hitchhiker—_

These phantoms too would pass. Eventually the face would fade, growing fainter and more indistinct. But never quite forgotten.

 _The dark hair and the sloping cheeks and the retainer necklace cast into the river…_

 _Gone_.

He was not what he seemed. Evil lurked within him, had stalked his footsteps since his body awkwardly transitioned to manhood, baptized in blood and guts and wayward disobedience. It would hound him forever, or at least until the servants could finally became sons. That's C.S. Lewis, _The Screwtape Letters._ Not Catholic, but then neither was David.

He dropped the spent cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. David, six years younger than he and separated by state lines, had gone off to college immediately after high school, and from there they spoke to each other only a little, and never face to face. He smirked a little as he remembered his own failed first attempt at higher education, when alcohol had made all his decisions for him. Why, he had barely attended any of his classes that fall semester, and when he did he was too drunk to pay attention. Dad had been pissed, as he had every right to be. Waste of time and money. Then it was off to the army, a four year tour in Germany. Sub-zero winter nights and roaming wild boars, Oktoberfest and cathedrals and memory…

Harsh neon greeted him. Yes, that was the place David picked out. It was in a bad area, on the fringes of Drug City, but it had been difficult enough finding the time to get together. At this point he would have gone to the city dump if it meant he could see him. He sighed. Sometimes he wasn't sure whether he hated this city of his birth, or loved it unconditionally, the way a child loves their parent.

Dad couldn't make the time to join them. But that was all right. He'd seen him not that long ago—last Thanksgiving, when they all came to stay with his grandmother, just like they'd done the year before. Well, once a year was better than not at all. Mom rarely even called. _Call me instead,_ she always said. _I don't care what you are, just call me_.

The interior of the diner was dimly lit and dingy. It reminded him of the seedy bars he used to frequent, drinking vodka straight from the bottle and violently tossing tokens across the counter. Tremble, or shudder. It was all in the past.

 _Did Jesus spend Saturday in Hell?_

The thought came out of the blue as he opened the door, like a thunderclap in his temples, but he didn't have time to ponder over its meaning.

David was waving from a booth in the corner facing the entrance. The grin that split his face was contagious; he felt himself smile back automatically, though not as broadly.

"Hello, Dave."

"Long time no see, Jeff!" If it were possible, his grin seemed to grow wider. "And you're all dressed up to meet me!"

"Black is always fashionable," he muttered as he took a seat across from him.

"No, I mean the—" he started to gesture at the white collar, but his finger drooped like a wilting flower. "Never mind. How're you?"

"Good."

"What do you mean, 'good'? Sanctified and cleansed? Purified and sin-free? Do you sleep on the altar to keep that way?"

Jeff gave him a look of drowsy amusement and asked "How are you?"

"Pretty igood/i, myself. I've got a job..."

Coffee and toast with eggs. He let him prattle on about Cincinnati, even though he was only mildly interested. Here lies Mom and Dad's favorite son. Sleeping three feet away all his life, and then together in the same bed at Grandma's one night. " _What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground!"_

"Have you heard anything from Mom lately?"

"Every time I call her, she just talks about herself. I'm always glad to hear she's doing well, but I can't get a single word in. I don't think she even knows what I'm doing now."

"Wait, Mom doesn't know you're a priest?" David's eyes widened. "I mean, it only took you ten years—she never bothered to ask?"

 _Nine_ years just to reach the starting point. He took out his smokes.

David laughed. "I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here…"

Catching the attention of the waitress, he held up the pack and raised a questioning eyebrow. She nodded.

His brother's laughter grew louder as he lit up.

"What's so funny?"

"There's something hilarious about a priest smoking."

He shrugged and exhaled. "Wait another few years, and you'll see me on TV, like Yul Brynner: 'Don't smoke, or you'll end up like Father Dahmer.'" He paused. " _Father Dahmer_ … Wow."

David waved his hands to clear the air, his nose wrinkling. "What?"

"It's crazy." He stared down at the linoleum table, and thought he saw the faces of old friends in the wood fiber. "This guy I knew in high school liked to draw cartoons. He made a bunch of us into characters in a detective story. I was Father Dahmer, the town priest."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Sounds like that friend of yours predicted the future!"

"I guess so…"

"You keep in touch with him?"

"No. We just kind of went our separate ways."

"I'd love to know where he is now. Maybe he's a fortune teller."

"Ha."

"Why'd you join the priesthood, anyway?"

"Not this again—"

"Come on, you never did give me a straight answer last time."

"Why do you care?"

David's good humor wavered. "Maybe because you're so secretive, I feel like I barely know you, even though you're my brother." He sighed. "I hear things, Jeff."

"About me?"

"About the Catholic Church and these priests who get away with hurting children—"

He jolted. "You think I'm like that?"

"No, I never said—"

"Why did you bring it up, then?"

"I… I don't know. I'm sorry."

He took out another cigarette. "To answer your question, I guess I thought if I joined, I would be able to just shut myself up in a room and read all the time. Immerse myself in studying. Hide from the world…" He smiled to himself. "Turns out there was more to it than I thought. Priests are also teachers, doctors, psychologists, missionaries and evangelists. They aren't sequestered away. In other words, I confused them with monks, and I wasn't about to join them."

The corners of David's eyes crinkled. "You still read the KJV exclusively?"

"More or less. Sometimes it's a pain in the ass to decipher… What are you laughing at now?"

"A priest swearing."

"The Bible doesn't say anything about swearing. And technically I'm off-duty, you know." He tapped on his collar. "I wouldn't be wearing this thing right now if it weren't the only thing keeping my head attached to my body. Without it, I'd dump this ugly mug in the garbage and go debauching." He held up his cigarette. "Whatever you do, don't smoke!"

"What's gotten into you?"

"The devil, probably." He took a sip of coffee and muttered. "I went to see a psychologist the other day."

"Why?"

"Mood swings. I'm tired of being jerked around, up and down. Like Mom."

"Oh, great. You know, they never did find out what was wrong with her. I never would have thought you'd wind up like that..."

Jeff stared at him. David blanched.

"All right, I didn't mean it that way…"

"Sometimes I forget that I'm still human, too," Jeff said suddenly, "Just an ordinary man underneath the robes. I still experience everything everyone else does. All the pain and suffering and sickness." He turned his gaze over David's shoulder, at the sooty wall, flickering with the nearest lightbulb. _"'I don't think evil grows out of madness. I think madness grows out of evil.'"_ His eyes lowered. "Copy that down, it's good."

"What?"

"Nothing. If that clock is right, I need to get going."

"Oh—uh, I'll see you around, then. I'll be here in Milwaukee for the next few days, so just call me, or I'll call you."

He couldn't get out of there fast enough. On his way down the street, he passed worn-out streets, dirty alleyways, peddlers of pleasures of the flesh. Everything happening naturalistically. What do I owe you? Get me out of here, and I'll do anything. Take me away from all this death.

 _Jesus spent the Saturday before Easter in Hell paying for me with His blood. I drank blood once. It didn't taste good._

 ** _The Ninth Configuration. That's what it's from. William Peter Blatty, same guy who made The Exorcist III. "If these things are just part of our natural environment, why do we think of them as evil? Why do they horrify us so? Unless we were meant for someplace else." He walked with me in the garden of Eden in the cool of the day. I am Adam with no Eve, seduced by the serpent all on my own. Fallen angel. The devil—_**

He stopped dead in his tracks, pulled down from his delirium, eyes wide behind the glasses. For there at the end of the street was a man just like him.

The Other was haggard. His clothes were rumpled and bloody. His face and arms were scratched and bruised. His eyes were wild, unfocused, disoriented.

When he saw the white collar he laughed.

Then he came closer, and his laughter died out, replaced by a pathetic whimper. His knees buckled a few feet away. Instinctively the priest reached out to catch him—

 ** _Am I dreaming am I crazy madness and evil and evil and madness save your servant sick or evil or both you want a ride?_**

The Other slipped through his trembling fingers, falling in a heap at his feet.

 _Don't touch him._ But he couldn't just leave him here, in the middle of Drug City, alone and beaten. This man, this Other, was still a human being. Wasn't he?

He swallowed his fear and reluctantly reached down again.

 ** _Should have gone to college and gone into real estate and gotten myself an aquarium where's your mother gone where's your brother am I my brother's keeper?_**

And again, he lost his grip. He sat down on the ground, his body shaking from the invasion, the intrusion of thoughts that were not his own.

The Other grabbed his arm and clung to him.

 ** _His eyes I can't stop looking they're so much like mine surrender I doubt it walk the straight and narrow look a baby nighthawk feed him from a tube so small and fragile he was only eight years old he was only fourteen thirteen fifteen seventeen of them my God how many of us are there legion for we are many—_**

"Why does this keep happening to me… Please… I just want to go home..." he moaned.

His hand retracted. The priest shook his head to clear it and spoke slowly:

"Where do you live?"

"I don't know anymore."

"Somewhere around here?"

He looked around. "Sometimes."

"Where else?"

"Ohio. Florida. One time I went to the Moon and died, all alone up there…"

"Have you been taking anything? Drugs? Have you been drinking?"

"Depends on who you're asking."

"You're bleeding."

The Other giggled, "'Dahmer' is of German origin, you know."

"How did you know my name?"

"It's my name, too. All our names."

Curious passerby across the sidewalk had stopped to stare at the bizarre scene. Twin brothers, maybe, or merely a priest and his charge.

"We've got to get out of here."

"I can't. It hurts…"

So he would have no choice but to touch him, if only to drag him out of the street. There had to be a way to deflect his prying, some way to defend himself. Maybe if he only listened...

 ** _Who am I to judge if you defile the land it will vomit you out the Bible says she came when everyone else left alone in the house alone in the basement with the boy asleep on my lap you can't stay here anymore that horrible smell rotten meat this must go needles drawing blood injecting let her stay I let her come into my bed but I couldn't do what she wanted me I didn't want her but I need somebody a body my fantasy my life pathetic miserable worthless pile I created a holocaust in the name of slavering lust I decided I would never marry married people fight all the time who wants to grow through that_** **blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful but his delight is in the law of the Lord and in his law doth he meditate day and night.**

In his apartment he sparked a lighter with trembling fingers and lit up his cigarette.

"Could I have one? Thanks."

"Why are you here?"

"I keep getting moved. The world keeps vomiting me out. I meet myself in another life, absorb them or escape, and get spat up somewhere else."

"How is that possible?"

A shrug. "I met this guy along the way. He had no face and no features, like something out of the Twilight Zone. But he could talk. He told me I was supposed to find somebody who would listen." He smiled and shook his head in disbelief. "Not a single one has wanted to listen. We're all miserable and sick and evil. Hell, people with nothing to do with me won't listen. Who the hell has time for that?" He scratched his head. "Hey, uh... are you really a priest?"

The priest butted his cig in the palm of his hand, exhaled smoke, and nodded.

"That's one I haven't seen yet. Maybe you're the one they wanted me to find."

"I doubt it. I'm a murderer, too."

Silence descended. The Other disposed of his smoke in precisely the same manner.

"What's today's date?"

"June 25, 1991."

"Who did you kill?"

"A hitchhiker. In Ohio, in the summer of 1978." The priest's gaze turned inward. "I was alone at the house for over a month. I had a car, and I saw him walking beside the road when I was driving around one day. He'd taken his shirt off, because it was hot, and I…"

"Don't bother finishing," the Other interrupted, "I've heard that story a dozen times already. Little details change—different person, different weapon, different method, different day or time or place. But the basics never really change. I always kill them."

"What about the one who didn't?" the priest continued, "There is one who didn't kill anyone, isn't there? I heard his confession on the way here. He's in there with the rest. His worst crime was lying to his wife."

"That wasn't his worst crime." The Other grimaced. "He killed his own son. Said it was an accident—drowned on a fishing trip. Eight years old, blue eyes like yours and mine. Name was Steven."

The priest held his head in his hands.

"And you're wondering 'why?'" the Other smirked, "Same reason Steven always dies, Father. To keep him. Remember how Mom was during the divorce? And Dad when she took David? Imagine that in yourself—both of their problems, blown up to catastrophic levels."

The priest's hands moved from his temples to covering his face.

"All this is making you lose your mind, isn't it? I already lost mine a while back. By the way, it was rather stupid of you to let me in here—never know if I'll go off and, say, eat your heart." The Other sighed. "Don't think I haven't tried to put a stop to all this. I can't kill myself. Well, not literally."

The priest stood up and grabbed his wrist.

"What are you—"

"I'll take everything you've stolen back."

"Oh no. No, no—you can't do that. All those memories will—"

"It'll still be me. I'll still be here." He smiled strangely. "But you'll be gone."

"You'll be gone, too! You think you can handle a dozen different personalities crowding your skull, uprooting your memories, shredding your every thought? You'll be destroyed, or you'll go crazy like me!"

The priest shook his head.

"You will!" the Other insisted, "If you think this is some kind of test of faith—"

"It's always about faith."

The Other blinked, at a loss for words.

"You're not crazy. You just think you are. All those memories you collected were brought together for a reason."

"What reason? What does that have to do with—"

He grabbed his hand, and a million thoughts and words and feelings and dreams were confessed. They filled an empty skull, where everything was written down rather than remembered and nothing was kept hidden from the light. In a hundred alternate worlds, parallel realities, different selves, what did man-made justice and mortal judgement matter? What did any of their choices matter?

And yet, it seemed the answer lay in cathedrals.


End file.
